A family gathering for the evening meal,” Uncle Julian said, caressing his words. “Never supposing it was to be our last.” “Arsenic in the sugar,” Mrs. Wright said, carried away, hopelessly lost to all decorum. “I used that sugar.” Uncle Julian shook his finger at her. “I used that sugar myself, on my blackberries. Luckily,” and he smiled blandly, “fate intervened. Some of us, that day, she led inexorably through the gates of death. Some of us, innocent and unsuspecting, took, unwillingly, that one last step to oblivion. Some of us took very little sugar.” “I never touch berries,” Constance
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